I’m presently outside Oklahoma City in the home of a successful mosaic artist and a cyclist/professor.
I like to think I don’t resent affluent people for their money, but there’s a lot of humblebragging and navel-gazing going on, and it’s making me miss my blue-collar, ungated neighborhood. Like, congratulations, you know famous people and you’ve traveled the world and you have the time to pursue all sorts of obscure hobbies. Doesn’t mean you shit creme fraiche.
Whatever. I will enjoy the designer bathmat, fluffy towels, and high-thread count sheets and be on my way in the morning.
I’m pretty much all packed for Texas, where I’ll be attending my first-ever overnight music festival.
Travel brings out the wild woman in me. Let’s do this thing.
Bud Light + tomato juice + clam juice + lime. They sound a little gross but they are unbelievably delicious.
7. Better Yourself. Go running. Floss. Drink more water. Take vitamins. Buy food that does not come in a box. Do push-ups. Wake up at an AM hour. Do not sleep away your weekends. Stop Googling that spot on your arm. Read books. Learn an instrument. Think of others. Stop blaming other people. Stop blaming yourself. Turn your strengths against your weaknesses. Turn your hatred of every missed word or tarnished day into the next day. Do not merely need to do better; actually do better. — 7 Steps to Being Confident // Thought Catalog (via elizablr)
There’s a new Hyperbole and a Half, you guys, and it is spectacular.
i can’t even explain how accurate this is. as a person who experiences depression, i have used these exact words to attempt to describe what it feels (or doesn’t feel) like.
Every line in this comic rings so true it hurts. That opening analogy she makes about childhood playtime is goddamn brilliant.
(Source: kaaayrutledge, via ladybitchez)
The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen. — Elisabeth Kübler-Ross (via scribnerbooks)
My friend Christina just quit her job and I only work 2 hours a day, so we’ve been spending our afternoons painting and drinking chilled white wine and listening to records. I painted this thing, yayyy.
Recording harmonies and some lead guitar parts for Ol’ Moose’s DARKNESS INSIDE album at Misunderstudio. It’s really coming together.
I don’t know whether it’s the receding hemlines, the foliage that thrums with frenzied new life everywhere I look, or the fact that I now own a convertible, but I feel about five to seven years younger now that the winter of my discontent has passed.
This winter sucked. It was unnaturally long, bitter, severe, and almost bipolar enough to feel downright apocalyptic (thanks, climate change). Maybe this is just par for the course now that we’ve managed to fuck up the atmosphere on an eschatological scale, but if so, I’d rather risk catching malaria in some sticky tropical clime than have to endure “ice pellet” storms, sudden blizzards, and general meteorological volatility for six months of the year for the rest of my life. Fuck that. I’m gonna have mai tais in the Philippines.
Miraculously, however, I appear to have come out on the other side of this massive case of Seasonal Affective Fuckery and I’m ready to get back into the hustle.
I think part of the reason for my six-month-long bout of the mean reds (besides the darkness and coldness and nosebleed-inducing dryness and OH GOD PLEASE LET IT BE OVER) is that I’ve fallen out of step with my old rhythms of creativity. It’s alarming how quickly that can happen, and it’s alarming how much it can mess with my overall sense of self-worth. I guess the main thing I’ve learned from the past serotonin-deprived season is that I truly feel terrible when I’m not making things.
These feelings came to a head in an emotional shitstorm of epic proportions recently. After the short-term lease for our tiny shack ended a month ago, Marshall more or less convinced me that moving back into his dad’s place would be a good idea, saying we could fix up the unfinished part of the house as an independent apartment and save a ton of money. I acquiesced, maybe not wanting to admit that I’m super fussy about my living spaces.
He was saddled with taking care of the move while I sojourned back to my alma mater to give a reading, and when I got back, things were in disarray. Because our apartment-to-be was currently a storage space that needed to be sanded, painted, and cleaned, we had to live in the dark, damp cellar in the meantime, and all our belongings were scattered all over the place. It was tough to move around in all the clutter, and something as simple as finding a shirt to wear became a 30-minute ordeal.
I don’t mean to bitch. I admire Marshall for being able to maintain a sense of inner calm no matter where he is—truly. I just don’t share that aptitude.
Tempers flared; resentments stewed; I felt utterly helpless. Thankfully, I have a compassionate behavioral therapist for a mother and a hard-nosed, whip-smart lady for a best friend, and they both basically told me, “Duh, move out. Ain’t no thang.”
I think I’m at my best when I’m living alone, when I have time for self-cultivation and creativity, when I can be the empress of my own little dominion. I’m sure it stems from having an authoritarian father, but I have a tough time flourishing when I have to share decisions with a dude. I have hope that eventually I’ll be able to enjoy the egalitarian nature of that, but right now it just inevitably makes me feel trapped.
Convincing my boyfriend that my desire to get my own place has nothing to do with our relationship and will ultimately help rather than hinder it is … ongoing. I can’t fault him for being dubious about it. But I need room to breathe, write, regain some goddamn agency, and clear my head. That’s why getting my own bachelorette pad will be the first order of business for the summer.
Meanwhile, I’m heading down to Texas this week with my awesome gal pal Christina to attend Kerrville Folk Festival. I’ve got a feeling that the travel and new experience will jump-start some creativity. Here’s hoping.
I’ll probably be coming here more often to get into the habit of writing again, so until next time… .
A little self-tough talk never hurt anyone.